Falcon: Sub Rosa
by The Solar Surfer
Summary: Sequel to Falcon, this is a sneak peek into the next part of the series. Falcon faces a new problem when crime spikes due a new hallucinogen named Rose Buds hit the streets and turn normal, everyday people into lunatics. Not only that, but the rise of superheroes has inspired others to vigilantism, and Falcon must deal with the consequences as her number one fan dons a mask.
1. Chapter 1: Prandium Fuste

**I'm calling this chapter one for simplicity's sake and I may mix up the storyline later, but this just features some new characters (and some familiar faces) to the series. I bet you all one nickel on who they are ;)**

**Anyways, read and review!**

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Chapter One

Prandium Fuste

I would say the best way to start off the new semester for high school is to _not_ get detention. Especially when it's only the first week in.

I should really listen to my own advice, but I'm saying this now, as I'm sitting down at a desk in a classroom with four other kids also in detention – it's a little too late for that. I'm the kind of person who learns her lessons the _hard_ way.

Really, I could have totally blown this off. Like, seriously, detention? I had stuff to do. Real world stuff, stuff that involved being a superhero and stopping crime and reveling in the fact that I passed last semester's English class with a B+. Granted, I would get suspended if I decided to ditch this rather tame punishment, and as much as I'd like to skip school for good so I didn't have to waste time there every day, I had to think about my future. I wasn't going to be a superhero forever. I was going to have a_ career_, a _life_, and that wasn't going to happen if I didn't at least get my high school degree.

The other three kids looked up as I entered, silent with raised eyebrows. I guess my arrival was a little unexpected, but I'm sure they've already heard what happened. None of them I knew, certainly weren't my friends, so I sat in the back of the class, where I didn't have to wonder if someone was watching me without me knowing. Granted, my radar could tell me, but I preferred having everyone in my line of sight anyways.

Mrs. Murphy arrived about a minute after I did. She turned to us, squinted, as though we might be hallucinations, then counted each of us in turn. Then she made us say our names as she read them off a list, in case we were imposters or something. Everyone was here.

Mrs. Murphy was the worst. She was usually a substitute teacher and she made even the best classes (like art or science) absolutely miserable. No one is allowed to talk. You can't listen to your music, you can't use your phone, you can't go on the computers unless she can see the screen facing towards her (so you better be hoping that's a really interesting essay that needs to be written), and no bathroom breaks. _No bathroom breaks_! She was evil!

She sat down at the desk in front of the room, adjusting her glasses so they went further up her nose, making her beady black eyes a little bigger and blacker. "All right, all of you know why you're here on this lovely Wednesday afternoon, and I'm going to tell you how you're going to be spending it today. No talking, no music, no phones, and no games. Do you all understand?"

A boy near the front of the class, blond hair and ratty sneakers propped on his desk, just smirked and said, "Clear as day, ma'am. And might I say, you've done a fabulous job hiding that bald spot."

Everyone stared at him; a few hid their snickers behind their hands. Mrs. Murphy turned her wrath onto him, "I said no talking, Jonathan! And anyone who breaks the rules will earn another detention that will be served tomorrow!" she scanned each of us with a scowl, as if silently daring us to push her buttons. "Now, if you're through, I will be handing you all a sheet of paper. I want each of you to think of what you've done to earn this detention and ask yourselves if it was really worth it. Each of you will detail, in your own words, to write an essay about what it means to be a good citizen, and why you all failed."

Jonathan snorted and slumped in his seat. The girl next to him, with thick red hair and a college sweater, raised her hand. When Mrs. Murphy nodded to her, the girl said, "How long do you want it to be?"

Jonathan groaned, dropping his head back over the seat and thrust his hands up into the air. "_Why_ would you _ask_ that?!"

"Enough!" Mrs. Murphy threw him another dirty look. "This is your last warning, mister. Another word from you and you'll be spending your next two days in this room, with me. As for your question, Angelica, I expect this essay to be _at least_ one thousand words, and not a single one repeated line after line. If I find any of them to be unsatisfactory, you will once again earn another detention. I want serious answers from students who understand what they have done wrong in this school."

Oh, good, I thought I was going to spend the next hour sleeping. Nice to know that wasn't going to happen. I rolled my eyes and kicked my bag to the floor. Not that essays were a big deal or anything, I just really didn't want to waste my time on something so stupid. I already had Biology homework I had to deal with. I had already decided, upon the first class, that Biology was going to be as much fun as English. Yay.

A boy with brown hair, sitting in the far left corner of the room raised his hand and said, "Okay, but what if we didn't do anything wrong?"

Mrs. Murphy turned her beady gaze on him. "Well then, Mr. Drake, I suspect you wouldn't be in this room at all if that were true. But you're English teacher, Ms. Dunham, left a note saying you disrupted the class, ranting about the bad grade you got on your report."

"It was a rigged!" the boy threw his arms up into the air, voice hiking up a decibel. "She wanted our opinions on _A Tale of Two Cities_, and I gave her it. The book sucked! Flat characters, contrived plot, and a bad ending! I took it as seriously as everyone else – Ms. Dunham just didn't like what I had to say."  
Mrs. Murphy flinched at his shouting and snapped, "That is not my problem, Mr. Drake! If you wish to take it to Ms. Dunham, be my guest, but for now you will remain in here like everyone else. Now, for the rest of you, a warning: if I hear so much as a squeak from any of you, and sign that you may be causing trouble, I will not hesitate to give you all detention – for two weeks! Am I clear?"

"Crystal." Jonathan said. Everyone else nodded.

Mrs. Murphy threw him a suspicious look before continuing. Her tiny black eyes finally fell on me, a frown pulling at her face, "You've been awfully quiet, Amelia. Do I make myself clear to you?"

I looked up at her, not expecting to be addressed. I had spent most of the time here either studying the table or watching the scene play out. I figured if I just stayed quiet, I wouldn't come under her wrath. And yet, she caught me by surprise, and I struggled for a moment to figure out what I wanted to say. I didn't like her calling me by my first name.

I had maybe a split second to respond without looking like an idiot, and when it slipped through my fingers Jonathan barked out a laugh, "Ha! Since when does Airhead Amy talk?"

_What?_

What the hell did he just call me?

I turned my glare to him while Mrs. Murphy just rolled her eyes and said, "I was talking to Amelia, not you. Now be quiet. Amelia, do you understand?"

"Don't call me that," I said, dropping the invisible daggers I was throwing at the back of Jonathan's head to look back at Mrs. Murphy, keeping my face straight.

"Don't call you what?" Mrs. Murphy, for one whole second, looked confused. It was a strangely innocent look that did not fit her demeanor at all.

"Don't call me by my first name," I told her, unafraid to meet her gaze. I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair. "And don't call me Amy, either."

"Oooo!" Jonathan sat up in his seat, feet sliding off the desk as he leaned forward and planted both palms on the wood. He grinned up at Mrs. Murphy, "You just got burned by Airhead Amy!"

"And I'll be seeing you again tomorrow and the day after, Jonathan," Mrs. Murphy said without as much as a glance at him. She was learning, at least, not to give him what he wanted: attention. "Fine, then, Miss Fletcher, but you still haven't answered my question."

"Yeah, it's cool, whatever," I made a face, shrugging. I didn't give a crap about the rules here, I just planned on waiting this out then jumping out the window as soon as everyone left, fourth floor be damned. "I'm not the one you should be worried about."

Mrs. Murphy must've agreed with me, by the squinting of her eyes and the lack of protest. She knew I minded my own business so long as no one tried to mess with me – unlike Astor, who learned her lesson today that I was no longer to be pushed around anymore. Over the course of Winter Break, she kind of forgot our almost-compatibility, the Christmas Spirit probably convincing her I was still a punching bag. The Christmas Spirit so very wrong.

And yet, she gave no warning to Jonathan, who so far was not earning any favors. Maybe she hoped he'd get what was coming to him. "Well, I'll be right across the hall, in a meeting with the other teachers. If I find the door unlocked or opened when I get back, it's trouble for all of you."

"Wait –!" Angelica raised her hand but spoke even though Mrs. Murphy didn't call on her. The teacher was already on her way out the door, pulling a set of keys from her pocket. "You're not actually going to lock us up are –?"

Mrs. Murphy jabbed the key into the lock and just before she slammed the door shut, she gave us all one last look and placed a finger to her lips. "SHH!"

_Bam!_

We were trapped inside.

I didn't panic right away. Again, there were windows. But I didn't realize what I was in for after Mrs. Murphy's footsteps faded away, and Jonathan immediately jumped out of his chair and skidded into the seat in front of mine, giving me a gigantic grin. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself, "_Hey_. You can call me Johnny."

I did not realize how bad this was going to get.

I looked from his face, to his hand, then to his face again. I said, "I am _not_ touching that."

"Oh, you're mean," Johnny pouted, in a rather convincing puppy-dog look that was ruined by the way his blue eyes crinkled with mischief. "For the record, that was way cool what you said to Mrs. Murphy. I hate it when people call me by my first name, too."

"Please go away," I said in an equally dull tone as I bent down to pull a book from my backpack. I hoped he would get the message, but Johnny's head was a lot thicker than it first appeared. He continued to smile at me, taking the book out of my hand before I could even open it to the bookmarked page.

"Oooh, what are you reading?" He said, drawing the book out of distance as I tried to snatch it back. "_To Kill a Mockingbird_? Isn't that about slavery or something? This looks like a schoolbook. Are you reading this because you _want_ to?"

Contemporary American Fiction was a lot easier for me to read than Shakespeare, so I didn't mind it so much. I leaned out of my seat, leaning over the desk to take it back from Johnny's hands. "Yeah, why not? I'm not writing that stupid essay."

"Hey, me too!" Johnny hooked a thumb to his chest, looking both astonished and pleased. It felt highly fake, though, especially when he leaned over and whispered with big, wide eyes, "We have so much in common! Why aren't we friends?"

I stared at him, holding the book to my chest, almost in protection. He had just crossed the distinction from annoying to weird and I was kind of creeped out. Why was he being so persistent? I scowled and said, "Because you called me Airhead Amy, that's why."

"Oh, what, that's not cool with you?" he said with a smirk, withdrawing and leaning against the desk behind him.

"Well, if it doesn't bother you, I guess I can just call you Jonathan from now on." I shot back. "Leave me alone."

"You're not even going to ask for my last name?" He asked.

"Dude, give it up," called the Drake kid over his shoulder, from the front of the room. His arms were crossed and he was giving a dirty look to the blank page on his desk. "She's not interested. Get a freaking clue."

"Don't ruin my game, man!" Johnny shouted back at him, twisting in his seat to throw the other boy his meanest look (which on a face so used to smiling, wasn't that scary). "I'll warm her up, eventually!"

"I'd take his advice, Johnny," said Angelica, who was already writing her report. She didn't look up as she warned, "I'm just saying, you wouldn't like her when she's angry."

"Shut up, Angelica _Jinx_!" Johnny snapped back, not pleased that three-fourths of the students in the room were not on his side. Behind him, Angelica ducked her head, shoulders hunched. Was her nickname? By the sound of it, Johnny didn't mean it as a compliment, anymore than 'Airhead' Amy was.

Johnny turned to look at me, curious as to how the smallest girl in the room could be so dangerous. I just gave him an innocent look and shrugged as if to say: _Well, she's right_. A look flickered across his face and for a second I actually thought he was afraid, but then he just shook his head and said, "Nah. She wouldn't hit a pretty face, would you, Amy?"

I felt my knuckles clench. I wondered how it would feel to smash them into his face. He looked so soft, so breakable compared to the thugs I've met on the street. I would have to hold back, try not to break every bone in Johnny's face. "I don't know, Johnny, why don't you ask Astor at the hospital? I heard she might've broken her arm during gym today. No idea how _that _happened."

Johnny leaned back, effectively intimidated, the smile wiped from his face in a moment. He laughed nervously, glancing around as though searching for an exit. "H-hey, I'm just joking around! Can't we all just get along?"

The Drake kid was snickering into his fist. "No offence, Johnny, but you're not her type."

Johnny threw me a suspicious look. "You have a type?"

"And you're not it, so go away," I replied, my voice sharp as knives. Johnny jumped out of the seat and returned to his previous spot, unable to look at me in the eye.

After that, detention was spent entirely in silence. Not even the Drake kid, who always had something to complain about, or Johnny, who was now trying to keep a low profile. Angelica avoided looking at anyone at all, and I just sat in the back, enjoying the peace.

When I left an hour later, I thought this would be the first and last detention I would ever had to spend with these guys. Boy, was I wrong.


	2. Chapter 2: Sanctum Sanctorum

**Chapter Two**

**Sanctum Sanctorum**

I wasn't kidding when I said I would jump out the window as soon as detention was over.

I waited until everyone left, then checked the ground below for any passerby. Affirming the area clear, I jumped four floors down into the alleyway, landing in a cloud of dirt. I ran off before any of my detention mates could realize I was outside before they were.

I stayed out until dark, going to the gym for my Judo warm-up before prowling the streets for trouble. After bashing some ugly heads together, I called it a day (since it got dark around 4 this time of the year and I was freezing) and made my way back to my temporary living arrangments.

For the past few weeks I've been going back and forth between Aunt May's house and the apartment, having crafted the latter into a sort of base of operations. Easier to hide and find privacy when I need it, closer than anyplace in Queens. I also don't have to worry about anyone going through my bedroom and finding something they shouldn't.

I had set up a cork board and created a diagram of everything I knew so far, with pieces of colored yarn to connect them. For example, my mother was the target, red yard connecting her to a label "White Rose", who was using her to get back at my father; another line, red, between the White Rose and the only picture I had of him, as a boy at a circus. A blue line, representing a relationship, sat between him and my mother – all together it created a triangle at the center of board, with many more pieces spanning outwards with their own branches. This was the center of my problems.

I knew so little of my father. Just that I looked like him, he used to work for the White Rose (more likely than not as an assassin or hitman, because the White Rose was going through way too much trouble if he was just some crappy drug dealer or something). Then he made them angry by leaving the family (theirs, not mine) and has been MIA for the past sixteen years.

I was going up to check it again, having gone as my civilian identity because I had recently gotten word of a new landlord and I had to see him.

The old landlord was a nice old man named Charlie who sometimes forgot when to collect our rent. I didn't know what happened to him, or what to expect when I knocked on the office door in the lobby – but a giant brute of a man was definitely not it. A billow of smoke followed him, rising to the ceiling. The man had thick black hair, cropped close to his head, no neck and shoulders as broad as a cello. He glared down at me from a crooked nose, once broken and healed out of place, pockmarks on his face from some mysterious disease. He sneered down at me, showing nicotine yellow teeth, and asked in a raspy grunt: "_What do you want_?"

I jumped at the sight of him. I swallowed, unsure of how to respond, preoccupied by the sight of a table behind him, surrounded by men smoking cigars in suits, holding cards in their hands. They were all turned to face the door, watching me with inscrutable expressions on their faces. When the man at the door raised a greasy eyebrow, I quickly said, "Apartment 1003, you left a note?"

My voice was a little higher and squeakier than I meant it to be. The man huffed out of his nose like a bull letting off steam. He pulled at his green corduroy lapels, straightening his shoulders as he told me, "Oh, right. Rent's been increased to five hundred a month. So you owe that. And last month's payment didn't come in, the check bounced, so I need that too – You got one week to pay that back before I have to evict you."

"Whoa, what?" I gaped at him, blinking as though if I did it enough times, he might disappear like a mirage. The apartment had been kept up by the monthly checks from my mom's bank account, but I guess it ran out. Only lasted for two months... "A thousand bucks? I can't get a thousand in one week! Where am I supposed to get that much?"

The man shrugged, making a face and pulling out a cigar and lighting it. At the same time, I noticed the black metal of a gun in his waistband, a not-so-subtle warning. He told me, "Not my problem, doll. I don't give special treatment, everyone else has to pay, too. Consider yourself lucky I'm even giving you a second chance. I could've dumped your stuff on the street for missing December's payment. So you better get used to the new establishment, before I change my mind. _Capiche_?"

New establishment? What the hell did that mean? My eyes fell to the card players, who turned and whispered to one another. I didn't get a chance to ask before the man slammed the door in my face, I stood there like an idiot, staring at the new name on the office door: Luca Tomoni. The man with the gun.

Still in shock, I made my way upstairs. Despite the arrival of Luca Tomoni, the elevator still didn't work, so there were ten flights of stairs ahead of me, plenty of time to take in this new information. Or rather, a challenge.

Well, so much for my new secret HQ. But I had already decided it was too important to lose. Somehow I had to find a thousand bucks in the next seven days.

This was going to be _so much fun_.

The apartment was cold and dark when I entered. I saved money by not using too much heat or electricity. I don't know what I'd do if I had to pay _more_ than I already had to. Not using heat during December or January wasn't exactly preferable, but I made do with the piles of blankets my mother had stored up in her bedroom closet.

I set my backpack down, sighing. My breath formed a puff of steam in front of me. The door closing behind me as I moved forward, I checked the lights as I entered the kitchen. Three bulbs illuminated the dark space, creating stark shadows into the living room and hallway beyond. Alone in my island of light, I took an apple from the fridge (the only working appliance in the apartment), then a knife from a drawer as it opened on its own.

I took my time peeling the skin, using it to think about what I was going to do next. I wanted to call Peter and ask his opinion on the matter, but I didn't own a phone, and the one here hasn't worked since my mother's kidnappers cut the cords. Not to mention the homework I still had to do (I resigned myself to completing it after starting in detention). And then spending another afternoon with Mrs. Murphy tomorrow? I guess it was a bad idea to break Astor's arm.

Not that I meant to. It just sort of...happened. She kind of had it coming, though.

But I digress. More detention with a teacher I hated and students that annoyed me. Fantastic. My week was just getting better and better, wasn't it?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of movement. I spun around, throwing the knife where I felt the body pass by the couch, almost invisible in the darkness. But the knife sank into empty wall, the presence I felt just a second ago having disappeared as quickly as it came.

"Who's there?" I demanded, the knife flying back into my hand. "Show yourself?"

And out of the shadows stepped a tall, curly-haired form. An all-too-familiar voice said, "Hey, take it easy, dove. It's just me, remember? Or have you already forgotten?"

I swung the knife in his direction, the gleaming blade hovering in the air. I focused on him, although it was a little hard since he wasn't completely removed from the black behind him. "You're not welcome here, Smoke. Get out, now."

"What?" Smoke actually looked surprised, which was strange. I never gave him permission to be here. In fact, I had forgotten he even knew where I lived. Or one of the places, at least. "Why? I've been here before, and you didn't complain then."

"Yeah, because I was completely out of my mind," I snapped, the knife shuddering in response. A sudden fear took me; if Smoke has been here before, did he know my name? Did he know Mom's name? How much did he know about me? Not Falcon me, but _me_ me? "And the insanity defense isn't going to work here. Now, leave. Go!"

"You're not even going to say 'thank you'?" Smoke folded his arms across his chest, giving me a disapproving look as he said, "Tisk, tisk, dove. I thought a lady like you would have better manners. Besides, I wanted to see how you're doing."

"How I'm doing?" I demanded, almost spitting, wishing I had my helmet to cover it. He already knew what my face looked like but that didn't make me feel any less exposed. And maybe my suit, too, because civvies just weren't cutting it right now. I never felt lamer than in jeans and a marshmallow jacket. "How the hell do you think I'm doing? Fantastic, since you've been gone. And here you are, acting like nothing's changed, strutting around like you own the place. I haven't seen you since Thanksgiving! I have no idea what you've been up to, never seen or heard from you once. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Smoke seemed to realize I was seriously ticked, and not just mildly annoyed like I usually was. He took a step back (or however that translated when the bottom half of him was still strangely in shadow) and threw up his hands, giving me a long look as he said, "Hey, look, I'm sorry I didn't keep in touch, but you'd be surprised how much business I get during the Christmas season. How many things the citizens of New York City wanted me to steal? It's all well and good but I didn't know you'd miss me so much. If I'd known, I would've gotten you something, too."

"Oh, shut up," I sneered, throwing down the knife. It's slightly dented pointy end dug into the floor and I turned on my heel, unable to look at him. I didn't miss him. I didn't! That was _so_ not what I meant. Did he really think that? "Teasing me isn't going to get you anywhere."

"So," Smoke took a step out of the darkness, arms extending like he was expecting a hug, and a hopeful smile on his face. "Am I forgiven?"

"No," I mumbled, throwing him an uncertain look over my shoulder. Honestly, I had been a little lonely over winter break. I felt kind of hurt Smoke hadn't seen me at all in the last four weeks. I had wondered if he had gotten bored of me, or turned back to a life of crime without looking bad. I was actually kind of glad to see Smoke was still, well, Smoke. "But I really don't want you hanging out here. It's...it's really kind of private, okay?"

His arms dropped to his sides, hug offer rejected. Smoke seemed a little disappointed. "Oh, fine. You take the fun out of everything, you know. Though I suppose it's better than you blowing up buildings."

"Yeah, glad that's over," I went back for my apple, half peeled, and took a bite out of it. As Smoke bent down to pry the knife from the floor (it was stuck pretty tight), I said around a mouthful of fruit, "How do you know him, anyways?"

Still tugging on the wooden handle, Smoke looked up and gave me a look of confusion. "He who?"

"You know, the guy that was supposed to help me... The guy at the warehouse," I almost wanted to say his name, but I wasn't sure if Smoke was privy to that information. I decided to play it safe and keep Bruce's secret safe. "The one that saved me."

"For the record, _I_ saved you," Smoke corrected, finally deciding to phase the knife out of the floor instead of pulling it, then walked over and dropped it on the counter. He leaned against the corner, frowning at me. "If it weren't for me, and my wonderful collection of connections, we wouldn't be here talking about this right now. Not even your little normal friends could help. You still didn't say 'thank you' by the way."

I ignored that last part, and leveled my own gaze to his. "I asked first."

Smoke snorted, tossing his head like a child who didn't get his way. Then he muttered, "I met him at a bar once. He was the only there not drinking, so I thought, 'hey, that's kind of weird,' and went over to talk to him, because that's what guys do. I even ordered him a beer, but he didn't drink any of it. Apparently the guy has real anger management issues, and alcohol just makes it worse. Seemed pretty chill though, for a guy the US Military is after."

I spit out my apple. "The_ US Military_? Who the heck is he?"

"Don't know, wouldn't say," Smoke just shrugged like it didn't matter, but I could tell by the smug look on his face that he was pleased to have gotten a reaction out of me. He played it cool though, trying not to soak in the attention I was giving him as he said, "He told me he had it under wraps, going sober for a couple months now. I felt bad for the guy, with no place to stay, so I helped him out, got him a place to hide. I check every now and again, and the place is all right. At least, no cops have come around knocking. He might still be there, if that's what you really wanted to know."

He smirked at me, clearly figuring out what I was trying to get out him. I flushed and ducked my head, trying not to appear too guilty as I said, "Yeah, whatever. Maybe I'll take you up on that offer sometime. Maybe."

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

I stuck my tongue out of him, a sign of my superior maturity and wit. "And you keep coming back for more."

"I just can't help myself, it's a vicious cycle." Smoke winced, running a hand through his hair. He got up from the counter, shuddering all over as if shaking off a spider that got down his shirt. "Ugh, I gotta get out of here before all this hominess gets to me. Catch you later, dove."

Smoke turned to phase through the wall or something, but at the last moment held up a finger and spun back around, an object flying from his hand. I didn't even think to look before my hand raised to catch it, an instinctual move. I looked at the hunk of metal in my hand, impressed with my reflexes. If that had been Spider-Man, he would've ducked and the radio would've smashed to the ground. "What is it?"

"What do you think, sweetheart?" he smirked at me like I was being an idiot. I flipped the radio over, not quite sure why there were wires sticking out of the end until he said, "It's a police scanner. I thought you might like it – you know, to pick up you're game a little. New York is an ever-changing place, it'll eat you alive if you can't keep up."

I frowned at him over the scanner in my hand, suspicious of Smoke's motives. There was no doubt in my mind that somewhere out there a NYPD cop car was missing it's radio. I wasn't particularly fond of the idea of getting caught for having it. "...Why?"

Smoke just stuck his hands in his pockets, shrugging one shoulder and rolled his eyes like it was obvious and I shouldn't be asking. Still, I could see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. "Call it a belated Christmas present."

He turned to leave once more. Smoke was half-way through the living room wall when I suddenly jumped forward and called, "Hey, thanks!"

Smoke halted, revolving around to look at me with half his chest sticking out from the wallpaper. He threw me a bewildered look, lips pulling down. "For what? The police scanner or me saving your life?"

I smiled at him. "Both."


	3. Chapter 3: Alabaster

**Sorry for not updating in like, three months. I've been super busy and stuck with a major writing block with all my fanfiction. I've just been writing more to my book that I just didn't want to get distracted with anything else. Hope this chapter helps ease the wait a little.**

**By the way, I hope this chapter also sets the tone for the rest of the story. I want it to be a little darker and edgier than the first. We also see some familiar elements from the first story, maybe some things you might have forgotten about. Either way, hope you enjoy!**

**All reviews are appreciated.**

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**Chapter Three**

**Alabaster**

I was listening to the police scanner an hour later, thinking over the recent arrival of Smoke. I was sure at this point that he didn't know my name – if he had, he would've teased me, called me outright by my real name. Why would he waste the opportunity?

The noise from the scanner filled my bedroom with static and broken voices. Some calm, some shouting – but nothing suspicious. I was waiting for a crime committed by the White Rose. I wasn't sure how I would be able to tell, but hearing all these things happening at once reminded me of how chaotic New York could be. Sure, all the little grids may look neat and perfect, but it hid how disorganized its people were, how easy it could get lost here.

There were reportings of Spider-Man every now and then, and in true Spidey style, he was there and gone before anyone could arrest him. Spider-Man had a better rep than I did, at least civilians weren't afraid of him. The police weren't too bothered by the idea of somehow managing to catch him, but they wouldn't come near Falcon unless they had a military back-up on their side. Spider-Man tried to keep law enforcement and innocents from getting involved in his fights, actively got them out of trouble when he could, and even helped the police (though they wouldn't admit it). I, on the other hand, don't bother them as long as they don't bother me. White Rose was my personal business and I honestly didn't trust the NYPD.

The White Rose were bold, and getting even more so as time went on. Just over Winter Break they robbed three banks, held up five high-end restaurants and fundraisers with celebrities, and were rumored to be behind the failed assassination of a visiting senator – Helena Azarov, who promised New York to make it a safer place. I reserved my opinion on politicians until I saw them in action (which, admittedly, is rather slow-going even on a good week). I felt the same about the city's governor, George Crawley, a supporter of Helena and crime reducing but not a target of assassination. I feared what Kane said might be true: the White Rose had the governor in their pocket, either through blackmail or bribe or full-on cooperation. There were so few authority figures I could put my trust on.

The White Rose were going back to 70's tactics – the age of when they were at their highest, New York at its lowest. Crime and chaos at an all time high, with dirty cops running the scene and good cops overworked and underpaid; a ripe playground for the rich and criminal, like the White Rose. I was sure the Big Man wouldn't mind this kind of paradise, either. I wondered if he was in on it, too. Was it really possible for the White Rose to take over the city again? How would they do it? More crime? Political corruption? Bribery and blackmail? Surely there were those too honest to succumb to them, those brave enough to stand up against them.

I had to assume there were dirty cops on the force. I would never tell this to Gwen, what with her father being Chief of Police and really the only guy I can actually trust on the force. If I asked him, would he deny it or add his own doubt?

"_Reporting a 376, a man with a gun at the Guggenheim, holding at least fifty people hostage, calling all nearby enforcements..._"

In the midst of my reverie, I wasn't listening to the report until after the fact. I jumped when it finally hit me and I lunged for the scanner, turning up the volume and hoping I hadn't missed anything important.

"_Please be aware, he may be on alcohol or another substance, hostile and unreasonable. There is no vantage point on him from the outside, calling back-up. Gunshots heard at 7:03 PM, alert ambulances and SWAT for intervention..."_

I was out the window in less than ten seconds.

Falcon had only been to the Guggenheim once, and that was for a school field trip when she was in the fifth grade. She didn't remember much; just the shape of the building, the fact that it was in Upper East Side in a neighborhood she could only dream of living in, and that it was filled with weird looking art. Impressionism or something like that, she didn't know, she wasn't much of a painting person. Movies were more her medium.

Anyways, instead of the usual crowd of tourists on the sidewalk and streets around it, there was a fortified wall of cop cars, vans, ambulances, and other assorted vehicles. Sawhorses were set up to keep the onlookers at bay. Many of them were taking pictures or recording with their Smartphone's. The place was lit up with fog lights, pointed at the entrance. In her black suit and wings reflecting the darkness of the sky, she was almost invisible flying above.

Falcon spotted snipers stationed on the five nearest buildings and flew high to keep out of their range. Guns were easy enough to jam, but a bullet wasn't as easy to stop. Not only were they small, but bullets flew faster than she did – breaking the sound barrier was yet an accomplishment Falcon had to make, and definitely didn't have the reflexes to dodge. Bullets barely registered on her radar, they went so fast; she could only pick up on the trail they left behind. Until she figured out a way to block bullets effectively, Falcon decided it best to either be in range of a gun to jam it, or too far away to be hit.

To avoid getting shot on the way down, Falcon took a 90 degree dive directly above the building. No one expected the black and silver streak to appear and smash through the ceiling of the Guggenheim (superheroes were big fans of property damage), straight through the giant glass window and down several floors below.

Screams filled the air almost as soon as she entered – over two dozen people were crouched on the floor covering their heads as glass rained down. But they looked up when nothing hit them, when the floor wasn't littered from the destruction above. Falcon landed with a soft thump, raising her arms, wings sheathing, and halting the falling shards of glass without touching any of them.

There was a collective gasp, then absolute silence. Everyone stared at her, Falcon back at them. The lights had been turned off and several pieces of art were damaged by burns. She looked around, wondering if someone in here was the crazy man with the gun.

Falcon saw the muzzle flash just in time to duck.

_BLAM!_

The bullet imbedded itself into the wall behind her. More cries and a man stood up, shaky and dressed in shabby clothing. He looked to be a hobo, with his unkempt, scraggly beard, holey shoes, and an old coat that looked as though it hadn't been washed in months.

Falcon's nose picked up on the stench from him, as she stood twenty feet away, right through her helmet. Sometimes having super-enhanced senses left something to be desired.

She raised her hands in a complacent manner, hoping to convince the crazy man she meant no harm (although it was a total lie). Falcon would have attacked by now, but there were too many innocents, too many chances for collateral damage for her to act as efficiently as she wanted to. "Hey, relax, I'm not going to hurt you. Just put the gun down and..."

That's when Falcon noticed just what _type_ of gun he was holding. Not the typical black handgun a man might steal from a cop or store, but a shiny silver piece that looked like it just walked off a sci-fi movie set. "..._what is that_?

"I'm not afraid of you!" the man shouted, his voice thin and wavering. Upon a closer look, she noticed that his eyes were red and extremely dilated. His grip was all over the place with his gun, the aim going back and forth between Falcon and the wall behind her. Was he high? "I'm the one w-with the gun! You have to do what I say!"

Falcon had watched enough CSI to know what to do in a hostage situation. "Look, you seem to be a decent guy – why don't you let these nice people go? They don't want anything to do with you."

Their captive audience looked back and forth between them. Some were focused on the floating glass, wondering what was going to happen. They were absolutely quiet, looking on in fear as Falcon tried to reason with this man. Were they afraid of her, too? Falcon knew there were a lot of people who didn't like her or her destructive methods, but did they honestly think she would hurt them?

The glass still hovered in the air like floating ornaments, spinning slowly. Falcon kept it as a back-up plan, deciding it could be an impromptu weapon if she needed it. Slowly, ever so slowly, she sidled forward, being sure not to alarm the man to the point of going off. Maybe she could get close and tackle him...

The man didn't seem to notice the glass. His focus was on Falcon, at least she was pretty sure. His eyes seemed glazed, uncertain. He waved his gun at her and said, "No, _you_ get out. I know what you can do, and you have no power over me! This gun is special, see, my friend gave it to me and he said it can't be jammed, not by accident or freaky voodoo powers!"

"What?" Falcon was bewildered by this statement, but found that, no, she could not find a safety on his gun. There were no bullets in his cartridge. It didn't feel like there was any solid piece of metal at all in his gun – exactly like the gun Moonscar used on her in November. "Who's this great friend of yours, huh? Is he White Rose?"

The man flinched at the name, like it was a physical blow. He grimaced and snapped, "You don't know anything! You're just stalling until the police come in here!"

Falcon had to admit, that was her Plan B. "What do you want, huh? Do you have any demands? Is the White Rose trying to get something in here?"

"N-no," the man looked even less sure than before. "I don't know what they want. They just told me to come here – and-and don't do whatever the police say! I'm supposed to send a message, that you can't escape the White Rose...they're everywhere! They know where you are, they know where you live, and they can turn your whole family into a memory the city will forget. No one gets out of here alive."

The crowd started to whimper. Several were already weeping silently. I saw two kids being shielded under the arms of a father. They're eyes were wide and terrified, and were constantly shushed by the man who watched Falcon with wary eyes. There were a few security guards in the crowd, trying to hide some people behind them. They were also watching Falcon, keeping not of her every move. No, none of them trusted her. But she was the lesser of two evils at the moment.

She was ten feet away now. Falcon wondered that if she put enough force in her lunge, if she could get him from this distance. She didn't want to chance it, but the man was not giving her a lot of options here. Falcon couldn't sense any incoming help on her radar, so decided to go on the offensive. "Yeah? Well, neither will you if you keep this up. Let me tell you, buddy, things are not going to end well if you don't drop that...that whatever it is you're holding. If you so much as hurt a single hair on anyone in this room, I make you regret it."

"No, no, this is not how it's supposed to happen!" the man cried, clutching his head and shaking it. He was shivering all over and Falcon hesitated as she drew closer. He looked honestly sick. She could see the veins on his hands now, a deep blood-red instead of the natural blue or green. Was that from the drugs he was on? "Nothing is working, nothing is working! I should never have gone to the White Rabbit..."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Falcon asked, completely bewildered. The White Rabbit? This man had to be hallucinating.

"Don't eat the rosebuds!" the man cried to the ceiling, throwing his arm around in a wild spin. Several bright shots went off, hitting a column, then a sculpture of a woman behind the hostages. Shards of marble flew everywhere. "White as snow, red as blood, black as ebony – Quoth the raven, nevermore!"

"He's lost it!" someone shouted behind her. That was all the encouragement Falcon needed to throw herself at the man.

In his mad dance, he somehow managed to dodge her. But Falcon turned and grabbed his arm, twisting the wrist holding the gun. He grunted but held on, face turning red with the effort.

He slammed his full weight into Falcon to throw her off. Five inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, he would've overtaken her if not for Falcon's super strength to cut in and ground her to the spot. She yanked his arm down to keep it from going off in the direction of any civilian and a blast mark embedded itself into the floor.

The hobo slammed his other fist into the side of her helmet, so she headbutted him. The man stumbled back, reeling. She held onto his arm, trying to pry the gun from his iron grip, but was too late to realize that the barrel was now pointed _at_ her.

_BLAM!_

Sharp, hot pain exploded in her hip and Falcon released her grip in surprise. She gasped, looking down to see the ripped suit, exposed skin, bleeding wound. Just stepping back caused her extreme pain and she fell to one knee, unable to breath. _No, no_! Why was her body failing her now? _Get up, get up!_

Recovering surprisingly quickly, the man brought up his foot and slammed it into her chest. Falcon fell onto her back, the shooting pain in her leg and side making it almost impossible for her to stand up again. She closed her eyes, wincing in pain. What the hell kind of bullet was that?  
She opened her eyes and saw the barrel of the gun staring down at her. It would have been very James Bond-esque if the hobo wasn't swaying on his feet, blinking through teary eyes with pupils so big she couldn't tell what color his eyes were. In a slurred voice, he said, "The White Rose don't let loose ends hang."

Just before he was about to pull the trigger, there came a shout behind him. A security guard had stood up, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Hey! Leave her alone!"

The hobo whipped around, startled by the disruption and letting his guard down for just a moment. It was enough. Falcon took advantage and threw both hands into the air. There came sound of glass whizzing through the air and the man cried out, swinging around as a dozen shards were slammed into his back. His aim went wide and a flash went off somewhere to the far left.

He fell backwards and Falcon thought it was over. Falcon picked herself up, falling on a heavy limp. Then a woman screamed.

"No!" she cried. "You killed him!"

She looked around, horrified to see someone else on the floor, the security guard who had saved her life at the last moment. The hobo's last shot hadn't been so stray after all. There was a deep, blooming red gouge in the guard's shoulder. He stared up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, a hand still on his empty Taser holster.

The woman, wearing a trench coat and fancy shoes, pointed a shaking finger at Falcon and shouted through teary eyes. "This is your fault! He's dead because of you!"

Falcon couldn't speak, too horrified herself to realize the truth. No, no, he's not dead, he's just...unconscious. No, she wouldn't let anyone die. She couldn't. If someone died because of her, then she could no longer call herself a hero. The city had every right to hate her now. Someone had died a pointless death for her and she didn't know what to do.

Outside, Falcon could hear policemen gathering, breaking down the front doors. A helicopter flew overhead, flashing a light down the hole she made in the ceiling. Instead of defending herself against the woman's accusations, the glaring and crying of the people around her, Falcon picked up the hobo's strange weapon.

"Isn't that for the police to find?" a man in a trilby asked, pointing at the weapon. Others had stood up, like him, were starting to move around, check friends and family. The incoming help were almost through the doors.

Falcon could barely look at any of them. "No. The police are way out of their depth."

"So, that's it?" the woman with the fancy purse demanded, tears streaked down her face. She wasn't quite crying, but she still gave Falcon a look of absolute hatred. "You're just going to leave? You're not going to even say sorry? What kind of so-called hero are you?"

Falcon couldn't look at the body, couldn't look at the woman, but she didn't hide the venom in her voice. "Don't try to fool me, lady. You never thought I was a hero in the first place, did you?"

The woman paused, frowned, then looked away, apparently unable to come up with a quick comeback.

Everyone in the room stared at her, apparently waiting for Falcon to say something else, maybe sum up the moment in something inspiring, something sad. But Falcon didn't have anything like that. She just stared at the shoes of the fallen guard, wondering if she could have done things differently, maybe someone didn't have to die. Was this really her fault? "This wasn't supposed to happen. No one was supposed to get hurt."

It was more to herself than to the people there. They murmured amongst themselves, arguing what she said, what it meant. By the time SWAT blasted down the next door and entered the room, Falcon had left on her wings, leaving behind a terrified crowd of people and two men lying on the floor. She didn't check to see if the hostage-taker was dead, too. For what he had caused, he deserved it.

And maybe Falcon did, too.


	4. Chapter 4: Mea Culpa

**Latin is the trend in this story. I've found so many Latin phrases that I don't know what to do with them all. They all sound so cool, so smart that I just want to write a chapter specifically so they can fit - but that's not good writing, so I'll hold back. I'll just use whatever fits closest to the relevant plot.**

**Anyways, enjoy! All reviews are appreciated.**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Mea Culpa**

The pain in my hip was almost too much to bear.

At least flying kept the pressure off my legs, thereby my hips didn't have to do any work. Each dip in the air, the cold breeze both jarred and numbed the pain. I blacked out three times in flight, the blood loss making my delirious. Entering the apartment, I had barely made it to the bathroom before collapsing in a heap across the tile.

I grabbed the edge of the tub and pulled myself to sitting position. My leg was warm and sticky with blood and in my rushed attempt to pull my suit off, I just made it harder. It was as snug as a wetsuit and took some yanks to get the waist over my wider hips. There was a singed, jagged hole where the blast had hit me. I had dropped the stolen gun somewhere in my room when I had entered, probably on the floor where I left my helmet behind.

Hair was sticking to my face, too warm with sweat. My breath was ragged and my hands shaky as I tried to gauge the severity of my wound. The man had missed the bone and the wound was already starting to heal – the bleeding had all but stopped now.

The pain was still in full force, though. I tried to sense the bullet somewhere inside, but I felt nothing on my radar. What the hell did that gun shoot if it wasn't a bullet? Where had it come from, how did the White Rose get it? Who made it?

I had so many questions but I falling dangerously close to the edge of consciousness. Fighting to stay awake, all I could see behind my eyelids were the faces of those hostages before I left: Suspicion, anger, fear.

Disgust.

OoOoO

I woke up later that night with a sore hip an empty stomach. I saw my hands hand how they were covered in dry blood. There was a brief moment of alarm before I remembered what happened, that this blood was my own, not anyone else's. My wound had sealed itself while I was unconscious, in a dreamless sleep.

My hip had healed into a bruised and ugly scar, like a comet exploding. My healing capacity was certainly helpful, life-saving even, but not perfect. I was always left with reminders of my mistakes. My knuckles were callused from many fights and I had scars to match the corresponding sewn patches on my suit. I still had the scar on my lip from the first time I save Oriole Kane's life, in an alley fighting off a gunman. The pure, unblemished skin I was granted after getting dosed with Gray Matter had since been marred and given history.

I was hungry but felt too sick to eat. I saw that dead man's face every time I closed my eyes, couldn't push it from my mind. It was stuck there, as though to remind me of my mistakes, that I was to blame, I was guilty of murdering the man who saved my life. I didn't even know his name. Did he have a family? What did they think, what were they going through right now? He was young enough to have kids. What would their mother tell them?

I started to cry. Hard, uncontrollable crying, that wracked my chest and made my sides hurt. I scared myself in being unable to stop, and I wondered if I kept going, would I run out of tears and dry up like a dead husk?

I didn't know what time it was. I still had school the next morning, but I didn't plan on going. I wanted to know who that man was, if he was going to get a funeral. Should I go? I didn't think they would allow strange girls to enter someone else's funeral...maybe I could watch from afar. I wanted to see who his family was, who I hurt.

I eventually made myself get up and find my laptop – borrowed from the school so long as I didn't break anything. I hunkered down in my bedroom, pulling the sheets over my head in a makeshift tent. Using the wi-fi from a nearby Starbucks, I began to shifting through various articles of the Guggenheim attack.

There was a video of the eleven o'clock news report. It had sparse information, but filled in what I didn't already know.

The anchorwoman spoke with a serious tone, a picture of the Guggenheim entrance, filled with cop cars and exiting hostages, to her right, taking up a quarter of the screen. "_Tonight, at 7:13, a homeless man – whose identity is being held by the police – broke through the ticket line at the Guggenheim, brandishing a gun and taking hostage everyone inside the museum. NYPD responded quickly but were unable to interact with the hostage-taker, who did not have a phone nor had any demands for ransom. The NYPD were planning to sneak in from the roof when Falcon, the city's one of two crime vigilantes, broke in and neutralized the threat, but not before a security guard was killed in the ensuing fight. The guard, 32-year-old Franklin Koppel, was reportedly trying to distract the gunman from killing Falcon; in turn sacrificing his own life when the gunman turned his weapon on Koppel. Falcon fled the scene shortly after, but not before taking the man's weapon with her. This gun, described to be made of a silver metal and firing off 'blasts of light', was what had killed Koppel and what the gunman used to terrorize his hostages. Police are investigating her involvement, saying she has become an obstruction to justice by taking away key evidence from an active crime scene, and question where her loyalties lie. Police have yet to establish contact with the so-called hero, and for now deal with the gunman, who sustained major back injuries and blood loss from Falcon's glass attack, but is currently in stable condition at Bellevue hospital._"

I thought she was going to transition to another story, but the newswoman surprised me when she continued with, "_According to our sources, the gunman was on a substance called Rosebud when he attacked the Guggenheim. Our police expert says that this is a new hallucinogen that has appeared just a few weeks ago on the streets and has ravaged anyone who has used it. Rosebuds, called that for their unique shape and color – that of a red rose flower – are powerful drugs that cause extreme mania, hearing and sight loss, hostility and aggression, severely impairs decision making, as well as turns the skin a deep scarlet hue. The police are in the process of finding out how it is distributed, although they do believe it has been imported from Italy. It is recommended that if you ever come across someone who has these symptoms, it is best to stay away and not engage, otherwise you might cause serious harm to yourself, the attacker, and anyone else in the vicinity_."

A mysterious drug that not only turns its users into raving lunatics, but also so elusive that the cops can't even find who's selling it?

There was a flicker of movement at the edge of my radar. I looked up, shifting the cover off my head. Someone was outside the building, against the wall. There came a tap at the window. It opened without me needing to touch it – in slid a rather cold-looking boy in red and blue spandex. When he took off his mask, I saw that his nose was red and eyebrows frosted white. He looked like he had taken a dunk into the Hudson.

"Peter, are you all right?" I asked, wondering just what the hell he had been doing.

"You know, I could ask you the same question." Peter said, shaking his head and sending a mist of droplets into the air. "Have you been crying?"

My hand flew to my face. It was dry – my eyes must still be red and puffy. I looked down at the bed covers, hoping he couldn't read my expression. "A little. I guess you've heard by now, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"Yeah. I wanted to see how you were doing." Peter sat down at my desk, spinning in the seat to face me. His face was calm but carefully guarded, as though he were afraid I might do something crazy at any moment. I guess he had a right to be worried – my powers weren't their most stable when my emotions were in disarray. "I heard you got hurt. What kind of gun did he have?"

"I don't know." I said, rubbing the newly formed scar on my hip. It was bumpy and sore, slightly less bruised. My stomach grumbled, asking for more calories so my body could continue the healing process without burning through the last of my energy. "I healed. The gun – I've only seen it once before, and it was in the hands of a White Rose hitman."

"That's who you think is behind this." Peter said. It wasn't a question. My suspicion was not something I bothered to hide – It just made everything worse when I was right. "Why did you take the gun?"

The gun was somewhere in the mess of my room. I found it again on my radar and let it drift from under my bed and into the air between us. I didn't want to touch it – just let it rotate slowly in the air between us. Peter squinted, reaching out a finger to feel the metal. "I've never seen anything like that before."

"I can't stop it." I told him, focusing on the gun instead of his face. If I saw human emotion, an expression that would remind me of the faces in the Guggenheim, I wasn't sure if I could keep myself together. Already my voice was starting to shake – another crying session about to break through. "It's not like a regular gun – I can't jam it, I can't keep the bullets from flying. I don't even think it _has_ bullets."

"What do you mean?"

To demonstrate, I pointed the gun at an old science project on one of my shelves. One of those 3-D renditions of a chemical. Oxygen, maybe, or nitrogen. The gun went off, lighting up the room with its blast, and vaporized the project.

"Whoa," Peter nearly stood in his chair, eyes wide. "It's like straight out of a movie."

"A bad one, where the good guys die," I muttered, letting the gun clatter to the floor. I scowled at the glowing computer screen. "How can I keep the White Rose from winning if I can't even protect the people they're trying to kill?"

"It's not over yet, Amy," he said, and the laptop was whipped off my lap with a sharp _Thwip!_ Peter took the laptop, fingers skittering across the keys like spiders trying to tap dance. "Who's going to be left to stop them if you give up? If what you say is true, and the White Rose have the city council in their pocket, then regular authorities aren't going to cut it anymore. Here, look at this."

He spun the laptop around the top of the chair so the screen faced me. On it was a YouTube video set to play, a guy speaking to his camera in a vlog post. "_Yo, this is your friendly neighborhood evening Superhero channel. I'm your host, Danny, and this is the Falcon Watch._"

"Are you kidding me?" I stood up from the bed to peer closer at this boy, who couldn't have been much older than a college kid, grinning into his camera like he was talking about the VMA's, not a terrifying vigilante. "People vlog about me?"

"About _us_," Peter rectified, beaming at her. He pointed at the column of other related videos to the right of the screen, showing different faces with similar titles. "When the _Bugle _started reporting nothing but how evil we were, these guys took it upon themselves to share the real story. They watch us and tell everyone the truth – the White Rose can't fight the Internet, can they?"

"Yeah, but it's the Internet," I said, throwing up my hands. How could a couple vloggers really make a difference? It seemed so intangible, so silly that I didn't understand why Peter saw this as a good thing. "It's like having an imaginary friend – you can't touch it, it can't physically interact with the real world. I mean, it's not people actually _care_, do they?"

"Just look at how much views this Danny guy has," Peter scrolled down the webpage to list the views beneath the video. The number was in the millions. "And he's not even the most popular one. I just think he does better with giving both sides of the story – and he uses all my photos, which is great publicity – and reads tons of comic books."

"We aren't in a comic book." I told him.

"You think in TV, he thinks in comic books, does it really make a difference?" Peter shot back and I slumped on the bed, realizing he had a point. Peter smirked a little, saying, "Not like there's anything wrong with that. But you have no idea how many people really support us, Amy. Just because they're not singing your praises on TV or calling you a hero in the papers doesn't mean no one thinks so. The Internet has a bigger base than either the _Bugle_ or the _New York Nightly_ has. The White Rose aren't just fighting you, they're fighting them, too."

Millions of people watching, waiting, judging. As the video continued to play, Danny recounted a robbery bust I did a couple months ago. This was an older post, but no less relevant. "_Despite what the _Bugle_ like to complain about, no one was actually hurt when Falcon intervened...well, except for the bad guys, but that's what happens when you wave guns at chicks with PK, kiddies. I bet Falcon was just holding back, too. If you recall, she once tore apart an entire block with a single scream. A single scream, people! She could've ripped those guys to shreds if she wanted, but guess what? She didn't. Sure, maybe that bank doesn't have hero insurance, but I'm sure they'd rather pay for those broken windows and desks than have to pay back all those people who lost their money._"

I smiled a little, forgetting that one of my meltdowns hadn't really gone as unnoticed as I thought it had. I planted my hand on my chin, starting to feel better. Just a little. I said, "Heh, I forgot about that. Are there other heroes besides us?"

"Not really," Peter shrugged, closing the laptop lid and tossing it back to me. I caught it as he said, "For the five boroughs, it's just us. If there are others out there, they're not using names, staying out of the limelight by being completely anonymous."

"Lucky them," I mumbled, envying whatever hero out there was managing to stay out of sight. Having a name and reputation was all well and good, but that meant people also had someone to blame. I guess it wasn't always unwarranted. "You wouldn't happen to know what Rosebud is, do you?"

"I heard it was a new drug on the streets, like crack on steroids or something," Peter said, frowning at the subject changed. He leaned into the chair, studying her face as if he could somehow guess what she was getting at. "Why? Is that what the gunman was on?"

"If the White Rose is dishing out both super-weapons _and_ crazy drugs to just random people on the street," I told him. "Then they're starting to create chaos in a way that scatters the police force into trying to contain all these disturbances. But that's just them creating a distraction, so the police will be too busy to attacking the branches when instead they should be killing the roots. I have to find out how they're distributing Rosebuds and blast guns without the police catching them. Got any helpful suggestions?"

"If it's not your average drug dealer, then White Rose must be doing it right under their noses," Peter scratched his chin, pondering the thought. I didn't really expect him to give me a great answer; it wasn't like either of us were experts at sting operations or something. "I mean, how would a homeless man get his hands on it? How would a soccer mom suddenly OD on hallucinogens when she never had substance abuse problems before in her life?"

It sounded like a rhetorical question, so I didn't answer. There was a brief bought of silence between us. I studied my feet before saying, "Remember how Harry was using? He got the Globulin Green because it was easy to get, he could always find more when he needed to. What if it's the same thing here?"

"What, you mean getting the drugs?" Peter shook his head, apparently not understanding what I was trying to get at. He held a hand up in confusion. "Where could a soccer mom, accidentally or not, get easy access to drugs that wouldn't involve a drug dealer? Unless someone snuck it into her food or something..."

That gave me an idea. "Stores. Grocery stores, pharmacies, gas stations. You think the White Rose might be selling it through otherwise legitimate establishments?"

"That was a lot of long words," Peter squinted at me like he thought I was trying too hard to sound smart. "But that doesn't sound like a bad idea. A great way to hide your business under the guise of another one that the police wouldn't suspect. Real sneaky." Peter pulled back the sleeve of his suit and stared at his watch. "Speaking of sneaking, I have to go home before Aunt May notices I'm gone. You sure you want to stay here? She's getting worried. I think she's afraid you'll starve to death."

"I'll be fine, thanks," I smiled weakly, but shook my head all the same. "I really need to be by myself for a while. Had a rough night tonight?"

"Let's just say I'm not a big fan of magicians who wear giant fishbowls on their heads," Peter said wryly before standing up and pulling his mask back on. He gave me a quick salute before climbing out the window and swinging away into the January night.

I stared at my computer, closed, for a while before forcing myself to open it again. I knew I should get some sleep, but I wanted to know everything about Franklin Koppel as I could. There was very little outside the sparse news reports and a Facebook page I wasn't allowed access to. I subscribed to Danny's superhero vlog, deciding that maybe I needed a bit of a morale boost right now. I watched some of his older videos, wondering if there really were people out there who believed in my cause, although no one's guesses were right. Some people thought I was like Spider-Man and was just defending the people of the city. Others thought I had a vendetta, which was pretty close – Danny even made a scarily accurate assumption that my motivation lied somewhere in the pain of a loved one, that someone I cared about got hurt because of the crime in New York and this is my reaction.

About six o'clock in the morning, when I had dozed off into the keyboard, I was jolted awake by the binging of a new video alert. Danny had just uploaded another update. Clicking on the video, I already knew what it was about. His grim face said it all. I prepared for the worst as he began to speak.

"_Hey, guys. This is a really early video, but I'm assuming you've already heard the latest Falcon news from the news channels. If you haven't, let me explain: last night, the Guggenheim was attacked by a gunman. As you can probably guess from the title of this video, Falcon showed up, but in the process of stopping this gunman from killing his hostages, a man by the name of Franklin Koppel was murdered. He was a security guard and apparently died distracting the gunman before he could kill Falcon. He was shot and killed instead."_

Danny looked as tired as I felt. There were bags under his eyes like he spent the entire night waiting for more news on this story. There wasn't the old twinkle of hope in his eyes anymore. "_In retaliation, she attacked the gunman and nearly killed the man with a million shards of broken glass – I suppose he would've died if the medics hadn't showed up in time to stop the bleeding. Franklin Koppel was killed immediately and could not be saved. This is the first record death of an innocent on Falcon's watch."_

I was dying to know what he thought. I chastised myself, telling myself I shouldn't care, that the people's opinion didn't matter so long as the White Rose got what they deserved. But that wasn't going to happen if I was all alone, with no one on my side. As awful as it was, I needed the will of the city on my side, or it will be that much easier for the White Rose to take over.

"_The hearts of Superhero Nation and our friends go out to the family members of Franklin Koppel, who left behind a wife and two sons. This is a terribly tragedy; good people shouldn't have to suffer for the sins of others_." Danny told the camera. I wanted to see what the comments said, but experience with the Internet told me that they wouldn't be filled with too many intelligent people. "_This is just another reminder that the world of superheroes isn't all fun and games. People get hurt, people die, and it's never going to be fair. But it's up to us to right other's wrongs, to make sure that something like this never happens again. That's why I want to send a personal message to Falcon, if she's listening to this right now..._"

I went back to the video, hit with a startling sense that he was somehow psychic. Although Danny had done that in several other videos, trying to send me a message that I only belatedly got months later. Still, I felt as though he was looking directly at me, like he knew I was _right there_ when he said, "_As speaker for Superhero Nation, we stand behind you. Don't stop fighting just because the media paints you a monster. In my opinion, I still think what you're trying to do is a good thing – there are so few people who are willing to do whatever it takes to make the world a better place. Unfortunately, today it means breaking the law to set it right and that just demonizes everyone involved. Not just you, but Spider-Man and the police, too, who can't do anything because stupid protocols and lawsuits keep them limited in what they can do. I can't imagine what you're feeling right now, after what happened last night, but please, don't give up. If anything, you'll just tarnish Koppel's name by not standing up for the weak, the helpless. Do what he did, and stand up for those who can't stand up for themselves_."

Danny leaned back from the camera and waved to his audience, sighing in what could only be described as a small sense of satisfaction. "_Well, that's all I have to say about that. For those of you who'd like to help the Koppel family, there's a fundraiser you can donate to, links in the information box below. I wish we had some good news today, folks, but all I can say is to keep hoping, keep dreaming for a better tomorrow. Good night, and good luck._"

Guilt for Franklin Koppel returned like a bag of bricks. While Danny's words did not ease the guilt, I was glad to know that maybe Koppel could still get justice for what the White Rose did to him and his family. Two sons...I wondered how old they were. Did they hate me right now for not saving their father?

There was only one way I could really be sure.

OoOoO

Franklin Koppel's funeral was held on a Friday, less than forty-eight hours after his death. It snowed that day, washing out the color as the procession made their way to the graveyard with the casket.

She watched from afar, keeping her distance to avoid conflict. It didn't feel right to show her face at the funeral of a man she had let die; she didn't want them to think she was some sort of morbid freak, like serial killers who attended the funerals of their victims. They couldn't see her face anyways, so what would they think if they saw her there? That she was going to finish off the rest of the family, that the terror had only just started to begin. Did they know she felt guilty, did they blame her for everything that happened?

Falcon wished she could divine these answers from the ceremony but if that's what the family and friends of Koppel thought, then they kept it to themselves. She spotted his wife, a woman in black with two little boys holding on to either of her hands. One looked to be barely five years old, the other closer to ten or eleven. She was sixteen when she lost her mother, at an age and with the ability to make the worst of it. Falcon wouldn't be here right now if the White Rose hadn't decided to take away her mother. What would happen to those boys, who would they grow up to be? She hoped they never turned out like her.

At one point, she had to duck down because she thought someone had spotted her. The older of two sons had looked up to the sky, as if curious about the falling flakes. He must've spotted her black form at the corner of an apartment complex, then pointed and said something too far away to hear to his mother.

If the mother saw Falcon, she didn't do anything about. When Falcon peeked out again, the mother was standing over the hole in the ground and letting a red rose drop inside. The sons followed her actions, the youngest biting his mittens and clinging to her leg. Did he even understand what was happening? Did he know who was in that coffin six feet below?

Falcon flew off soon after people left in their black cars, leaving behind a trail of footsteps in the smooth layer of snow behind them. As soon as the last car left and the last piece of dirt padded down in front of the gravestone, Falcon dropped to the ground, right were the mother stood some time before.

The groundskeeper cried out and dropped his shovel at her sudden appearance. With an incoherent whimper, he ran off, nearly tripping in the thick snow. Falcon ignored him, looking down at the marble gravestone in front of her.

It was simple marble. Too simple, she thought. Why weren't there any decorations, any unique flourishes that said this man was special, that he died a hero? Even his inscription was kept short and to the point:

_Franklin Koppel_

_1983-2013_

_Beloved Son, Husband, Father._

"That's it?" she muttered to herself. "How can that be it?"

"Is there something wrong, miss?" said a voice behind her that made Falcon whip around in surprise.

The cemetery was so cold, so quiet and still that she didn't wasn't expecting someone to still be here, somehow. The man, with thinning white hair, in a black suit and small book in hand, smiled pleasantly, if sadly, at her. "Sorry, I did not mean to startle you. Did you find something upsetting?"

"I..." Falcon stared at the man – a priest? – before turning back to the gravestone and clenching her jaw, telling herself she shouldn't be talking to anyone, and certainly not here, out in the open. Why couldn't she just pretend he didn't exist, like she used to with people who got too close. "It...it doesn't say much. I thought it should say more about him."

"Oh," the priest nodded like he understood, coming to stand beside her at the grave-site. "Did you know him well?"

She glanced at him, wondering if he was joking. The man just returned the look with an inscrutable expression on his face. "No. I – he saved my life. I thought...I guess, I thought he deserved better. This shouldn't have even happened in the first place. He should be with his family, not down there all alone with-without..."

Falcon's voice started to crack and she clamped her mouth shut, trying to swallow that lump in her throat. She made to wipe at her eyes but her hand just brushed against her helmet ineffectively. She made a noise of frustration, her hands turning into fists as she kicked at the snow. Some splattered on the headstone and she immediately felt bad for acting out, particularly in front of this man. Was he judging her right now? Did he think her immature and stupid?

"Have you lost someone close to you?" the man asked as though nothing happened.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Falcon demanded, managing to get her voice back under control and only intoning the emotions she wanted it to.

The man just sighed and shrugged his shoulders, saying, "Sometimes we feel guilt over the things we cannot control. Sometimes we're blamed for the things that couldn't be helped. And then when this guilt, this grief becomes too much, it comes out in a way that maybe is misunderstood by others. It's only natural to feel this way."

Falcon let this sink in for a second. No, she wasn't stupid, she knew she wasn't the only person who lost someone she cared about. Maybe she shouldn't even be complaining – she didn't have the right to. Her mother was still alive out there, somewhere, a chance of returning. Those boys didn't have that chance. They were never going to see their father again. Eventually, she asked, "Do they hate me? Do they wish it was me instead of him?"

"Whether they do or not, it doesn't make a difference," the priest replied. This answer only frustrated her and she made to snap at him for his unhelpfulness, but he raised a hand for patience and continued, "Perhaps you should consider if it's possible if you can forgive yourself before you ask forgiveness from someone else. If you cannot accept it, then the effort will mean nothing. If you are not careful, this guilt you feel can quickly turn into a thirst for revenge."

"Are you going to tell me to just 'turn the other cheek' next?" Falcon scoffed, tossing her head in derision. If this man expected her to just let Koppel's death go as a mere mistake, he had another thing coming. She jabbed a finger at the grave marker, "Koppel not only didn't deserve this, but it wasn't an accident, either. Somebody gave that homeless man a gun, somebody wanted him to go on and hurt others. I wish I could have stopped him in time, but now it's too late. That man might be facing trials but the people behind this are getting off scot-free, with no punishment whatsoever. If you expect me to forgive _that_, then I guess you don't think Koppel deserves justice for his death."

The priest didn't waver during this speech. It made Falcon even angrier – didn't he react to _anything_? What did it take to make this guy _do_ something? But the priest just closed his eyes and nodded slowly, "Sometimes those who do evil unto others don't get their just reward, but is it really up you to decide what happens to them? What gives you the right to enact justice, as you call it? Power? Hatred? Just because you can?"

"If I don't do something, no one else will." Falcon's voice shook with emotion. How dare he try to revoke her right to defend others, to bring justice? She wasn't going to wait around until the White Rose died out (if they ever did) for them to meet their punishment in the afterlife – she wasn't going to stand by and let people suffer and hope that one day, they might be happy somewhere else. "They can't get away with this, not in this life or the next."

The priest gazed at her for a long moment, his head tilting ever so slightly. "Your words are noble. But don't let your emotions cloud the truth. Do what you believe is right and bring justice to whoever committed this terrible crime – I will not condone any actions you make after this point. It is not for you to decide what their punishment is, only that they see judgment."

Falcon didn't say anything to this. She looked down, reading Koppel's inscription once more. He deserved so much better than this.

She took off into the air, leaving the priest by the grave site without so much as a good-bye. Falcon knew what she had to do.


End file.
